A Hochstetter Hanukkah
by Sgt. Moffitt
Summary: Two lonely souls find comfort on a very special night...First posted as a chapter in "The Unsung Hero".


_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

 _This was first posted in 2010, as a chapter in my very first Hogan's Heroes story "The Unsung Hero". In my universe, the irascible Major Wolfgang Hochstetter is actually mild-mannered (albeit frequently exasperated) Professor Howard Cohen, formerly of Columbia University but currently an Allied agent working undercover as a Gestapo officer. Cohen has many interactions with the inhabitants of Stalag 13, but his private life is a very lonely one, except for his cat Manfred. Until one cold December night..._

* * *

December 10, 1944

The evening was dark and blustery with blowing snow. The denizens of Hammelburg appeared to have shut themselves in for the night, no doubt carefully rationing the diminishing amounts of fuel available to them. No one was out on the streets tonight, and no wonder.

Cohen walked the few blocks from Gestapo headquarters to his home on a narrow street that intersected Krötengasse. He pulled the collar of his trench coat up and hunched his shoulders against the bitter wind, reflecting that his Gestapo uniform overcoat was much warmer than the plainclothes attire he was wearing today.

 _Another German winter. Another year of waiting for an Allied victory. Will it ever be?_

The initial burst of optimism he had felt after hearing the news of the Normandy invasion had long since worn off. The long slog breaking out of the hedgerows of France, the failed plot to assassinate Hitler in July, the Market Garden disaster _,_ and the ongoing battle in the Hürtgen Forest had made it clear that the war would not be over this year.

Even worse, he knew in his gut that a major German offensive was planned for the near future, and he feared what little information he had been able to provide London was not specific enough to be helpful, leaving the Allied forces woefully unprepared.

And he could only imagine how the guys at Stalag 13 were feeling in the face of the bad war news.

He was in an understandably gloomy mood, therefore, as he pushed open the lobby door of his apartment building and with difficulty closed it against the wind. Shaking the snow from his coat and boots, he removed his fedora and nodded to his landlady, who had just emerged from her flat.

 _"Guten Abend, Frau_ Lindemann _."_

 _"Guten Abend, Herr Major._ It is so cold out tonight!" _Frau_ Lindemann smiled at him a little uncertainly, and added, "I was wondering, Major, if you would care to come and share some wine with me?"

Cohen was a little surprised. Although he saw her almost every day in the hallway, he had never yet been in her home. But the thought of some company this evening was very welcome.

"I would be delighted, _gnädige Frau._ "

He followed the elderly lady into a tiny, spotlessly clean room that had a very small coal fire burning on the hearth. He looked around the room, noting the shabby furniture, the faded photographs and various knickknacks scattered about.

Then he froze as he spotted a small table.

Nine candles were lined up on it, with only the central candle lit. There was no menorah, but Cohen knew the significance of those candles, and he suddenly realized what day it was.

He turned slowly to face _Frau_ Lindemann, noticing for the first time the lacy scarf covering her white hair. She smiled the uncertain smile again, and for a moment Cohen was transported back in time, two and a half years ago, when a small child had handed him her greatest treasure.

Tonight the same unconditional trust was given to him, and he was humbled.

"Happy Hanukkah, my son," she said, and reached up to embrace him.

He held her close for a moment, fighting tears.

 _When was the last time I embraced another human being? When was the last time I was free to be who I really am?_

Cohen released her, absurdly glad that he was not wearing his Gestapo uniform today. "My apologies, _Frau_ Lindemann. I did not realize, until now, what day it was. I have not been...observant for so long."

"Nor have I," she admitted. "My husband, my Friedrich, was a Gentile, and we had no children. I let all the old traditions lapse during our marriage. He died many years ago, but by then, it was not safe to be Jewish in Germany, so I continued to ignore the old ways. But this year, my son, I believe we need to remember them."

He did not ask how she knew that he was a Jew. It was not important, for tonight he gave her his trust as well.

He covered his head with his fedora in lieu of a kippah, and they went to the little table. Together they lit the candle on the far right of the little grouping for the first night of Hanukkah, and together they recited the blessings.

 _Praised are You,  
Our God, Ruler of the universe,  
Who made us holy through Your commandments  
and commanded us  
to kindle the Hannukah lights_ _._

 _Praised are You,  
Our God, Ruler of the universe,  
Who performed wondrous deeds for our ancestors  
in those ancient days  
at this season._

 _Praised are You,  
_ _Our God, Ruler of the universe,  
Who has given us life  
and sustained us  
and enabled us to reach this season._

They stumbled through them, and forgot a few words, but Cohen knew they were the most beautiful blessings he had ever heard.

Afterwards, _Frau_ Lindemann served latkes and wine, and they talked of the old days in Germany, when Cohen had been a small child. He told her a little of his life in America, and of how Manfred had come to live with him.

At last he rose to his feet to take his leave of his hostess. She accompanied him to the door and he bent to kiss her on both cheeks.

"Thank you, _Frau_ Lindemann. Tomorrow evening I will be back, and we will light the second candle."

"I will be waiting. And next year, there will be a menorah, and the menorah will be in the window, _ja?"_

" _Ja._ And there will be peace at last."

And for the first time in a very long while, he could believe it would come true.


End file.
